


crave

by sapphicsongbird



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom!Jon, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gay Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Pillow Talk, Sub!Martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicsongbird/pseuds/sapphicsongbird
Summary: “That’s a good boy.” Jon’s voice was gravelly, catching in his throat, and Martin smiled inwardly at how quickly they fell back into one another. As he stiffened and coils of tense pleasure wound themselves in his gut, he managed to open his eyes, and let out a strangled, “is that it?”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 134





	crave

“What?” Though irritated, probably, with Martin’s smitten gaze on his scarred face, Jon couldn’t hide the rasp in his voice as his chest, slick with sweat, rose, fell, rose, fell with still-receding waves of pleasure. Martin (though he tried not to) giggled. 

“It’s, well… it’s just that… Jon.” An expectant glare met him and he stifled another laugh. “It’s-it’s-we always end up like this, don’t we?”

Martin latched his teeth over one dark nipple and, unwillingly, Jon writhed again. “Oh. Martin, come on-d-don’t… ah.” Salt and musk and warmth on Martin’s tongue made him let out a husky, unnameable sound of his own, a growl that felt foreign coming from deep in his soft figure. 

“Like…?” Jon had recovered. Martin couldn’t tell, particularly, if his boss (his boss) was trying to provoke him, or if his dry, cynical tone was simply, well, him. Regardless, the other man’s low voice and the proximity of his hot, velvety skin, dark against Martin’s white linen sheets, made his cock twitch, his form tense again in arousal. 

Martin didn’t deign to respond. He pressed his face against the crook between Jon’s neck and the hollow of his delicate collarbone, and the smaller man’s fingers grabbed at Martin’s smooth, freckled back. Sweat was pooled there; Martin traced an eager tongue over it, thirsty for it, for Jon, for the wet and animal smell of him. He traced a hand down the narrow chest, the tight stomach, scarred from a hundred things, and his fingers found the groove of Michael’s old wound. Sensitive, Jon curled more tightly into Martin, until Martin couldn’t quite feel where he ended and Jon began. “Sorry,” he whispered. But he wasn’t. “Are you tired?”

Jon sat haughtily, rolling Martin over onto his back, and frowned. “Me?” 

“Well!” Martin couldn’t hide a grin. God, he was a fool. But Jon’s curled, greying hair, mussed from the hours they’d just finished delighting in one another, the dark of his eyes finally, finally unshielded before him, was irresistible. Martin thought to himself, not for the first of last time, how surreal this all seemed, how lucky, how stupidly, beautifully lucky he must be. 

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice Jon’s wordless retort until it was curled, gently, around his half-hard cock. He shivered at the lightness of the touch, at the roughness of Jon’s fingers sliding across the wetness that still mingled around his head, down the bottom of his shaft. His eyes half-closed, he tried to catch Jon’s smirk before he tossed his head back, lost, embarrassingly easily, in the shaking, gorgeous feeling Jon’s expert touch sent through him. He sighed. 

“That’s a good boy.” Jon’s voice was gravelly, catching in his throat, and Martin smiled inwardly at how quickly they fell back into one another. As he stiffened and coils of tense pleasure wound themselves in his gut, he managed to open his eyes, and let out a strangled, “is that it?”

Jon cackled. “Oh-ho. Feeling needy, Martin?” 

What an arse. But he couldn’t be angry for more than a moment as Jon leaned over him. Their eyes caught and in the dim, early-evening light, grey through the window of Jon’s modest flat, Jon’s deep brown irises glinted with desire, his lips, oh-so-slightly, enticingly dry, parted slightly, and Martin couldn’t take it anymore, whatever ridiculous tension Jon was trying to build, whatever kind of a tease he was trying to be, he simply couldn’t resist, and knew as much even before he grabbed at Jon’s long, thick hair with both hands to pull him down and bring their open mouths together. 

The slick of their tongues had felt so easy, so natural the first time, when they’d desperately lunged for each other in the dark of Jon’s office, when they’d fumbled like teenagers for one another in Martin’s temporary bed in the archives. Now, Martin felt Jon feign restraint as he desperately caught Jon’s lip between his teeth and sucked, not letting him pull away. He knew he’d won when Jon rutted, involuntarily, against his thigh, the smooth, delicious skin of his cock making Martin tense, again with pleasure. 

Planting kisses across Martin’s cheek to suck at his earlobe, Jon whispered, “are you sure you can handle another fuck?” 

“Oh, stop,” Martin started, then paused. “Wait, uh, waitwaitwait, Jon…” 

Jon looked up from where he was working at Martin’s right nipple with his teeth. “Yes, love? You want my cock in you, do you?” 

“I… no.” 

If he’d spent less time studying in meticulous detail every contour of his face, Martin might have missed the flash of disappointment that crossed Jon’s features. 

“I mean, would you just… I just want you to… can-can you suck me off, Jon?” Why, after so many late nights (and early mornings, and lazy afternoons, and early evenings, and midday bathroom trysts... ) did his face still flush so red and hot at the thought of Jon’s perfect mouth on him? 

Relief, then, as Jon ran his hand down Martin’s stomach, which was moving rather rapidly with hitching breath at Jon’s touch: “Certainly.”

Martin knows if Tim ever felt the power in Jon’s tongue, and the searing heat in his eyes, he’d be far more willing to believe in all the… well, all the ghost shit. The teasing suction of Jon’s lips just around his head sends Martin into throes of yearning agony, his hands fisting in the sheets as he whispers, “God, Archivist,” and Jon mutters, “now, now,” huskily, before getting more seriously to work. And Martin’s hands, suddenly, are everywhere, the untidy blankets, over his own soft thighs, then yanking at Jon’s hair to pull him down, down, down, until Martin’s hips buck and his head hits the back of Jon’s throat. 

For the brief and endless moment when he comes, swift and suddenly, and Jon drinks him in, there is no horror, no darkness and no endless fog, and this heat, this fire, does not frighten Martin at all. 

Almost before Martin had fully emerged from his reverie, he heard Jon distantly wonder, “... what do we always end up like, again?” 

And, breathlessly laughing, he realized he was now the one spent and sweaty, almost so sensitive as to pleasurably ache between his thighs, tangled in the sheets. And, with even greater pleasure and a seizing up of joy somewhere in his chest and the back of his throat, he sees Jon looking up at him, mouth still wet, eyes wide and adoring.

**Author's Note:**

> very first work is jonmartin smut bc that's... my life, now. find me @victorianlonging on tumblr if you want! enjoy some gay fluff bye


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